


Second-in-Command

by Timid_Timbuktu



Category: Revolution (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, No Smut, Violence, alpha!Bass, conflicted!Miles
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-31
Updated: 2013-01-31
Packaged: 2017-11-27 17:36:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/664631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Timid_Timbuktu/pseuds/Timid_Timbuktu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Miles has always thought of Sebastian as his equal, even though Sebastian does not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Second-in-Command

**Author's Note:**

> This story was inspired by 3988akasha and gundamen, after akasha’s uniform rant on tumblr. I don’t think this is what she intended, but it made me rethink the entire Miles/Bass dynamic and this story was born. I’ll take complete responsibility for this story though, since it might not be the most popular dynamic for Miloe, not all kittens and fluff.
> 
> Unbeta'ed.

“Why did you do it, Miles?”

Miles simply glared up at Bass, tied to the interrogation chair in the concrete cell.

“You know I can’t give you preferential treatment,” Bass continued, pacing the cell with his hands clasped behind his back, “I can’t give anyone preferential treatment and then you go and do this? What the fuck am I supposed to do with you now?”

Miles refused to take his eyes off of Bass. He knew that he’d technically committed treason, at least according to the definition Bass had created. He knew the penalty for treason. He had put Bass in a bit of a bind, but he didn’t regret his decision.

Bass smiled without mirth, the smile that Miles had never seen directed at him, the one he used on prisoners. In that moment Miles realized that maybe that’s all he was, just another prisoner.

“Did you think that our history would let you off the hook?” Bass was fidgeting, violence boiling just beneath his movements, “Did you think that you were above the laws of the Monroe Republic because I love you?”

“You’re above the laws, why shouldn’t I be too?” Miles had wanted to remain mute, but Bass’ bait was too tempting to reject.

“Because you’re not the fucking president.”

“Dictator, you mean.”

“Fine, dictator,” Bass pulled up the second chair and sat down a couple feet from Miles, “I don’t care what word you use. Dictator, president, tsar, king. They all mean the same thing. I’m here,” he placed his hand in the air between them at eye level, “And you’re here,” his placed his other hand six inches below the first, “Did you forget that?”

“I don’t recall ever receiving a lesson about how you are above me,” Miles’ voice was calm even though he was just as angry as Bass. Luckily, he’d always been better at hiding his emotions, “I remember forming this Republic together. You and me, equals.”

“And I remember taking over because you didn’t want to be the ‘figurehead.’”

“Silent partner doesn’t mean unequal partner.”

“Oh, but it does. That’s exactly what it means. You didn’t want to be president, so I stepped up, because you were weak.”

“Use that word again when I’m not tied to a chair,” Miles spoke through his teeth. He was finished with playing nice.

“I’m not entirely certain you will ever be free again, Matheson.”

“It’s ‘Matheson’ now? What is this really about, Bass? You know that I receive ‘preferential treatment’ as you call it. This republic exists because of me despite the name on the ledger. You are the president because I put you there. Everyone knows who pulls your strings…and exactly why I pull them.”

Bass leaned back into his chair, squinting at Miles with thought. He sighed and pursed his lips.

“Let me get this straight. You are saying that I’m your bitch and everyone knows it. Is that about right?”

Miles leaned as far forward as he could, “Yes.”

Bass stood up, that angry smile on his lips. He was breathing loudly, nodding his head just a little too quickly.

“Well then, enjoy your fucking beating, Matheson.”

Miles had not enjoyed his beating, not that it was bad by militia standards, about a dozen tame punches to the face. He knew that Bass still cared about him because he didn’t stay to watch it. Bass always watched beatings. He loved watching traitors bleed. He reveled in seeing them broken and begging. That was the preferential treatment that Miles received because Bass loved him. Somehow it didn’t dampen Miles’ anger.

A few days later Miles found himself tied to a chair in Bass’ office as night descended. Sebastian looked like shit, dark circles under his eyes, his hair slightly greasy and unkempt. Even his uniform seemed a bit too crumpled, like he was a child playing at being the leader of a massive Republic. For a moment, Miles felt sympathy swell inside his chest, but it quickly died when Bass looked up from the papers spread across his desk. His eyes were dark with hatred and anger.

“We found some of the traitors you released,” Bass said. Miles’ stomach dropped. Nora, Sarah, Brittany, Alice, Lori…28 women in total. They might all be dead and his act of treason was for nothing. He kept his face emotionless as Bass stepped toward him.

“Twelve of them. But, you’ll be happy to know that Nora Clayton is still at large. Isn’t that the one you were trying to save anyway?”

“I was trying to save all of them, Bass.”

“Well, you failed,” Bass crouched in front of him. Miles had never had Bass’ wrath directed at him. It was a bit disconcerting. He’d known Bass for 29 years, and he’d been fucking him for the last 14 of those. But he’d never been afraid of him until this moment.

“What happens to them now?”

“Nothing. They were all shot on the spot,” Bass said without any emotion, “They’re all dead, and when I find your precious Nora Clayton, she’ll be dead too.”

“Bass, this isn't you,” Miles muttered, feeling like he wanted to vomit. It had all been for nothing, 12 women dead with the other 16 soon to follow.

Bass’ mouth quirked up, another fake smile, “You’re right. This is you, but you stopped doing your job, so now I have to pick up that slack too.”

“They’re soldiers in the militia, Bass, we can’t just kill them.”

“They’re traitors.”

“Jesus Christ. They were just trying to save their families. That is the only reason they went against your direct orders. And then you locked them all up without a trial and set an execution date.”

“Do you need me to read that section of the by-laws to you again, the part were I have the authority to detain, torture and kill traitors without due process?”

“Dictator,” Miles spat the word at Bass, hoping he would understand the gravity of the accusation.

He simply pursed his lips, “I told you before that those are just labels. Now I have another one, Commanding General of the Monroe Militia.”

“So, is that my official notice of demotion?”

“Sure.”

“What about my other roles, am I being demoted from those as well?”

Bass walked right into the trap, “What roles?”

“The only person who has ever made you moan like a little bitch.”

Bass stood up, and raised his eyebrow but he didn’t stop him, so Miles took it as an invitation to continue.

“The only person who can make you beg with need. The only person who knows just how hot that little ass of yours feels wrapped around his dick.”

“Who says that you’re the only person who knows?”

“That’s a weak tactic, Bass. I know you’ve only ever been with me.”

There were few things in Miles’ life that were certain, but that was one of them.

Sebastian gave him the smile again, the one that didn’t reach his eyes, and stepped toward him. He loosened the ropes tying Miles to the chair and stepped back, allowing Miles to pull his hands free. Miles had no idea why calling him ‘a little bitch’ had inspired Bass to untie him, but he was still grateful. His wrists were beginning to hurt.

“Seriously, Miles, what the hell am I going to do with you?”

Miles sighed, “The Republic is _ours,_ everyone knows that, so why are we even having this conversation?”

Bass leaned against his desk and crossed his arms, “It’s not ours. The ‘name on the ledger’ matters. It’s mine.”

“You can’t be serious. How long have you thought that?”

“Months…years. You wouldn’t do what needed to be done, Miles, so I stepped up. I guess I’ve realized that it truly is the _Monroe_ Republic.”

“But we chose the name because it sounded better,” Miles protested, still unsure why he’d kept the real reason a secret. He hadn’t wanted the hypothetical “Matheson Republic” drawing any attention to Ben and Rachel. He’d kept his brother’s involvement in the blackout a secret from Bass for the past nine years. He didn’t like to think too hard about why he’d never trusted his lover with that information.

“And I’m the president,” Bass muttered, investigating his fingernails like they were the height of interesting.

“We made that decision because you are the ‘people person,’ and I’m not,” Miles offered the normal explanation.

“None of that changes the fact that I am the Commander-in-Chief of the Monroe Republic and one of my Commanding Generals just released 28 traitors from prison.”

“Everyone knows that it is you and me, that this is our Republic,” Miles wanted to stand, but he was trying to remain calm and non-confrontational, so he stayed seated in the chair, running his fingers along the wooden armrests.

“And that is exactly the problem,” Bass didn’t look at him as he spoke, he just kept investigating his fingers. Miles was finished with diplomacy. He rose and advanced on Bass, lightly slapping his hands down so that he would stop gazing at them and look at Miles instead. It worked. Bass turned his cold blue eyes to him, staring without blinking, “What, Miles?”

“Stop being so damn cryptic and just say what you want to say.”

Bass sighed and pushed lightly on Miles’ chest, making him take a few steps back, “I am the president. This is the Monroe Republic. It is mine, not yours, not _ours._ Mine. If you were anyone else, I would try you for treason and execute you. So, I’m asking you, what am I supposed to do about you?”

“Be very careful,” Miles tilted his head down, glaring at Bass, “You might just get what you want. You want to rule this entire Republic on your own? Just say the word.”

“I don’t,” Bass said simply, without thinking, “But I already am. You have been a complete flake for months. You have been soft when I needed you to be strong. This little breach is just the last straw. There were the other incidences, like the one in Binghamton when you let those insurgents go.”

“They were children.”

“And Scranton, when you lied about the fact that they hadn’t paid their taxes in months.”

“They were going to pay eventually. If I’d burned their village to the ground, they never would have paid.”

“That isn’t the point. If it gets out that the militia has gone soft, then anarchy returns and we are right back where we started nine years ago.”

“No,” Miles shook his head, “We agreed when we started this that eventually we would transition the militarized state into a more democratic one. Hell, you were the one who fought for it, remember? So, let’s do it.”

“We’re not ready yet.”

“Yes, we are,” Miles grasped his hand, disturbed when Bass jerked slightly at the sudden touch, “We are there. We restored control. People are thriving again. Now is the time to phase in other branches of government, elected branches.”

“No,” Bass said, pulling his hand from Miles and walking around the desk, obviously trying to put distance between the two of them, “I disagree, and when we put this to a vote with all of the generals last month, you lost, badly.”

“Only because they are power hungry. This is the right time. Please, Bass.”

Miles stepped toward the desk and leaned over it. Bass stared at him, intense and thoughtful.

“So, you released those traitors,” he spoke slowly, trying to keep his anger in check, “In order to force my hand and make me do what you want, even though you know that I don’t agree?”

It sounded low and devious when Bass described it that way, but Miles was only trying to make a better Republic, the one he and Bass had originally set out to create. He hadn’t intentionally tried to force Bass’ hand. He paused, sensing that he was stepping into an unwinnable trap.

After a few moments, he said, “I was simply trying to do the right thing and save innocent lives.”

“And usurp my authority?”

It hadn’t mattered what Miles said, he couldn’t win. He was on a balance beam, knowing full well that he was destined to fall off, but still flailing his arms in an attempt to stay upright.

“What do you want me to say, Bass? I’ll admit I’m at a loss.”

“I want _you_ to tell _me_ what the Hell I’m supposed to do about you.”

Miles stared stupidly. He had no idea what to say.

“You set me up in a position where I can’t win,” Bass continued calmly, “I let your little stunts slide and I’m seen as weak or ‘your bitch,’ as you like to call me. I’m sure everyone else already calls me that as well. Or I try you for treason like I would anyone else and you wind up dead. Two great options, aren’t they?”

Miles fell off the balance beam.

“Try me for treason,” he said, surprising himself and Bass, “We’ll figure out a way to get me cleared, and then you won’t be seen as weak.”

“But what do I do the next time you let insurgents go or you let a village not pay their taxes? What do I do the next time you decide not to follow my orders?”

That stopped Miles cold. Sebastian was asking him to be just a general, like all of the others, rather than an equal partner.

“It won’t happen again,” Miles choked on the words, hoping that Bass interpreted them as he chose.

Bass sighed and walked around the desk. The anger had dissolved slightly, but he still didn’t look happy. He cupped Miles’ cheek in his palm.

“How can I be sure?”

“It’s me, Sebastian. Why are you doubting me so much? I love you.”

Without warning, Bass grabbed the hair on the back of Miles’ head and pulled him down to his knees. Miles hissed in pain.

“How can I be sure?” Bass repeated, low and cruel, and slightly crazy. His paranoia was palpable.

Miles felt fear roll through his body, making his fingers twitch. This was a side of Bass that had never been directed at him. Sure they had occasionally dabbled in bondage and sadism in the bedroom, but they weren’t in the bedroom. This was real. Miles couldn’t tell Bass to stop in this situation, because this wasn’t just a sex game. He could push him away physically. They were nearly equals at hand-to-hand combat, but he didn’t want the situation to escalate more than it already had.

“I love you, Sebastian. You know that. I get it now, how my actions are affecting your authority. It won’t happen again.”

Bass leaned down, right hand still gripping his hair painfully as he caressed Miles’ cheek with his left hand, “It better not.”

He released him unceremoniously and began to pace the room, hands behind his back.

“I need you by my side, Miles. I can’t do this without you. The past few months, you’ve been different, drifting away, going against my authority. I need you with me in this, do you understand? I can’t do this without you.”

Bass was talking too quickly, teetering on the edge of control.

“You’ve always had me, ever since you were six years old. Why are doubting me?”

“I’m not talking about you as a friend, Miles. I need you as my general, by my side, following my orders, enforcing my laws. And for almost a year you’ve been slipping, doing whatever you wanted, making your own decisions.”

“I’ve always made my own decisions. I’m not your mindless drone.”

“Well, maybe you should be.”

That hurt more than a punch to the face. _Never mix business and pleasure,_ the old saying went. Apparently that quote also extended to building military dictatorships with your best friend and lover. 

Miles’ throat turned dry and each word felt painful, “If you don’t want me as an equal partner in the Republic, then you can’t have me as an equal partner in our relationship either. You can’t have one without the other. I won’t bend to your will as a general and then happily suck your cock at night.”

“This is about so much more than that. I’m the president of the Monroe Republic, I can’t have a general who doesn’t follow my orders.”

“Stop it!” Miles yelled, “You are Sebastian Monroe, my best friend since I was eight, the boy who beat up Jeff Clark when he made fun of me, the man who pulled me behind that Humvee in Iraq when we were under attack, the man who dragged me out of that battle in Trenton even though I told you to leave me behind. The man I love above all others.”

“Rousing speech,” Bass said in a monotone voice, completely unimpressed, “But I’m still the fucking leader because you didn’t want to be. If you want to be the leader, just tell me, but until that day comes, I’m the president. And you are either with me or you’re against me. So which one is it?”

Miles simply stared at him. What could he say? The answer was neither, but he knew that wouldn’t be an acceptable answer. The seconds spread between them. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway. Bass stared, waiting.

“Is this the part where I go back to my prison cell?” Miles whispered.

“Is that code for ‘I’m against you’?”

“No, I just…” Miles rubbed his hand across his forehead, “Too much has been said tonight. I can’t right now. I need a break from this conversation.”

“You can sleep in the guest room,” Bass responded, turning away from him, “Dismissed.”

Miles waited for a beat, wishing he knew what to say. Apparently he was just another general, dismissed to go sleep alone in another bed in another room, not Bass’ lover.

********************************

Sebastian was breathing hard as he slept. He always did when he slept on his back, not quite snoring, thank God, but close. The sunlight was beginning to filter through the white lacey curtains, illuminating Bass’s golden curls and the stubble that covered his cheeks and chin. He looked younger and angelic, wrapped in the comfort of sleep, temporarily free from the burdens of his life. 

Miles shifted in his chair and studied him. He’d been sitting there for two hours, trying to build up the courage to do what needed to be done. Sebastian Monroe had finally turned on him and used his authority as president against him. He’d been exploiting his power for years, but never against Miles. He felt like an idiot for not noticing the signs until recently. Bass had slipped so slowly and subtly into megalomania that even Miles hadn’t truly seen it. Or maybe Miles had, but it had been too hard to accept, because acceptance meant action, that Miles needed to do something about it. In a way, he had been trying for the past few months by not following Bass’ orders, but that was a passive aggressive tactic, and it had completely failed him. It was time to act.

Bass moaned lightly in his sleep and began to twitch to life. Miles was hit with an intense wave of nausea. The time had come.

He rolled toward Miles and rubbed his hands across his face as he opened his eyes. He jerked immediately, pulling back when he glimpsed Miles sitting in a chair four feet from the right side of the bed.

His head fell back onto his pillow, “Jesus, Miles, you scared the shit out of me.”

When Miles didn’t reply, Bass sat up and looked at him. His whole body stilled when he spotted the handgun, silencer attached to the barrel, in Miles’ right hand as it rested limply on his lap.

“What the fuck are you doing, Miles?” Bass muttered, bringing his gaze up from the gun to Miles’ eyes.

“I made my choice,” Miles had to force the words out, they kept sticking in his throat, “I’m against you.”

Bass paused for a few moments, furrowing his brow in confusion. He threw the covers from his body. Thankfully he was wearing boxers rather than sleeping in the nude…which he did on occasion. He swiveled and sat on the edge of the bed, staring at Miles.

“What is the gun for?” He seemed on edge, but not afraid, just confused.

“You need to stop, Bass. You’ve gone too far, too much blood, too much killing. This is the part where we transition into a more democratic nation.”

“What the fuck is the gun for?” Bass enunciated each word. He still wasn’t afraid, just angry.

“You agree to step down as president or I kill you,” Miles was proud of himself for actually being able to say it. He hoped that Bass would take him seriously and step down, because he wasn’t sure that he could actually go through with it. He’d just spent the entire night convincing himself that he could, if he had to, but staring at Bass, sleepy-eyed and half-naked, he wasn’t sure.

Bass stood up and Miles was on his feet instantly, gun pointed at Bass’ head.

“This is no joke. Step down, Bass.”

“So, you want to be president now?”

“Yes. You said that if I wanted to be the leader all I had to do was say so. This is me saying so.”

Bass took a step toward him, without thinking Miles stepped back and away from the chair. Bass’ mouth twitched up condescendingly.

“No.”

“Bass—“

“You’ll have to shoot me if you want to take over. This is my Republic. I’m the president and you’re my general. Not the other way around.”

“Bass—“

Sebastian took another step toward him and Miles stepped back.

He smirked, “You’re not going to shoot me, so what the Hell are you trying to prove right now?”

“I will shoot you,” Miles’ voice wavered.

Bass kept walking slowly toward him and even though Miles knew he had to stand his ground, his feet compelled him backward away from Sebastian. His back hit the wall and he leveled the barrel of the gun between Bass’ eyes.

“Stop fucking moving, Sebastian.”

Bass didn’t follow his orders, so Miles pointed the gun past him and shot a hole into the headboard of the bed. He hoped that the silencer prevented the presidential guards from hearing. Regardless, the next shot needed to go between Bass’ eyes, he couldn’t keep bluffing with warning shots.

Bass turned around to look at the hole in the headboard before calmly gazing back at Miles. His blue eyes were saucers, unblinking and annoyed, but he still didn’t seem afraid. Miles was the one who was shaking and near tears.

Bass kept walking until his head almost bumped into the barrel of the gun. Now was the moment. Miles just had to pull the trigger and he could begin to fix the Monroe Republic. _Monroe,_ the name echoed through his mind and he wondered if they would still call it that after Bass was dead. It was these thoughts that distracted him when Bass’ hand suddenly swept up and grasped the barrel of the gun. He wrenched it away from Miles and stepped back, caressing it lazily before looking up at him.

Miles’ breathing started to falter. He realized too late that he had failed. 

Bass hit the side of Miles’ head with the butt of the gun, making him fall to the ground. His head was pounding. He’d been punched plenty of times, but this was a whole new level of pain. Still disoriented and nauseated, he felt Bass grab him by the hair. He hauled him toward the bed, pushing him face down onto it, his body flush against Miles’ backside. Miles struggled until he felt the barrel of the gun on the back of his neck.

“What the fuck is wrong with you, Miles?”

“Are you going to kill me?” Miles asked, voice shaking with emotion.

“Why would I kill you?” Bass stepped back and Miles turned, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding the back of his head where Bass had hit him.

“Because I just tried to kill you.”

Sebastian laughed, holding the gun limply at his side, “Is that what you call that? You were nowhere near killing me, so what are you trying to prove?”

“Step down, Bass.”

“No,” he yelled it, “Wrong answer. I’m the president. You are either with me or you’re against me.”

“Stop being like this,” Miles was yelling too, “What the fuck, Bass? This isn’t you. Stop it.”

“Here,” Bass handed the gun back to Miles, shoving it into his unwilling hands, “I don’t have time for this shit. You are my general, you will do as I say. So whatever this is, get it out of your system and then get back in line.”

“That’s all I am to you?” Miles’ voice cracked as tears welled in his eyes, “Your general?”

Bass’ sighed and his eyes softened, “You know you are more, so don’t say stupid shit like that. But at work, yes, you are my second-in-command. I need you by my side, Miles. Supportive, not trying to undermine me.”

“And I need you to actually care what I think.”

“I do. I listen to everything you say, but at the end of the day, I make the decisions. You want to convince me that we need to restructure this government, then convince me. Don’t commit treason. Don’t force me between a rock and a hard place. Don’t hold a fucking gun to my head.”

“I made plenty of eloquent arguments. You disregarded every single one of them.”

“Then get the memo, Miles. I don’t agree with you. Just because I fuck you, doesn’t mean that I agree with everything you think. That isn’t how this government is going to be run. I’m finished with you acting out for attention, so stop.”

Miles’ stomach flipped with frustration, “We need to create a senate, different branches of government that are as powerful as the executive branch, so that then we can have a dialogue about what is best for the Republic. We need democracy.”

“Shut up!” Bass advanced on him, and Miles raised the gun defensively, “I am the government! I am the Republic!”

“Then I’m against you,” Miles punched him in the face with the butt of the gun, figuring that it was karma for what Bass had done earlier. Blood flowed out of the fresh wound in Bass’ cheek. He attacked him and they rolled onto the floor, lashing out indiscriminately at each other. Bass was focused on taking the gun from Miles, allowing Miles the chance to elbow him in the ribs. He managed to slide away and stand up. He kicked Bass in the gut, before stepping back and pointing the gun at him. They were both breathing hard as Bass looked up at Miles and pushed himself off the ground.

“Don’t,” Miles cocked the gun and placed his index finger on the trigger. Bass stopped moving and fear flooded his eyes for the first time.

“You’re going to kill me?”

“You leave me no choice,” Miles felt tears slide down his cheeks, but he kept his expression hard. He had to do this. Bass had changed. He was no longer the man Miles had fallen in love with years ago. He was dark and violent and completely obsessed with power. There had been a time when he had been obsessed only with Miles. If only Miles knew how to bring that Bass back, the one who was obsessed with harmless things.

“I’m sorry, Sebastian,” Miles was sobbing now, “I love you. I’m so sorry. If there was another way to stop this, but there isn’t.”

“You’re going to kill me?” Bass’ eyes were wide and unblinking, his breathing shallow. He finally believed it, but he was too surprised to be afraid, “Even _you_ turn on me. I can’t trust anyone if I can’t trust _you_.”

“This is your fault,” Miles whispered, his breath hitching on his sobs, “You turned on me first. This was always supposed to be our Republic, equal partners. This is your fault.”

“Does it make you feel better to say that?” Bass was crying too, still sitting on the ground, “Will that help you forgive yourself for turning on your best friend? I can’t even trust you?”

Without warning, Bass lashed out at Miles, throwing his body at him in an attempt to topple him, completely disregarding the gun pointed at him. Miles angled the gun down and away, unconsciously, and fired a shot.

Bass cried out and fell onto the floor, right hand clutching his upper left arm, as Miles began to shake violently. Bass pulled his hand away and showed Miles the bright red sticky liquid smeared on his palm. He’d shot him in the arm. He’d shot Sebastian Monroe. He backed up, gun shaking in his hands.

Bass glared up at him, his mouth a hard line, and drew an “X” across his forehead with his own blood.

“That’s where the bullet goes, Miles,” he spat, his eyes crazy and wild. Miles was shaking so badly that it felt like the world was being thrown apart. He’d shot the only man he’d ever loved.

“You don’t do it now, and you’ll be the one who dies,” Bass said calmly, and Miles believed him…completely. He just needed to pull the trigger. It was simple, but he couldn’t.

Without thinking, he stepped toward Bass and throttled him across the left side of his head with the gun. Bass tried to stop him, so he punched him in his injured left arm. Bass hissed between his teeth and fell to the ground. Miles hit him again in the back of the head. He had no plan, but he knew that he needed to incapacitate Bass to have any hope of escaping.

Bass coughed and panted, trying to push himself up and failing. Miles ran to the dresser and pulled a length of rope from the lower drawer, the rope they sometimes used during sex. He also grabbed a pair of socks and duct tape. Bass has still struggling to push himself off of the ground, obviously in much pain.

Miles angled his face up and shoved the socks into his mouth, taping over them. Bass screamed through the gag, his eyes wide with rage.

Miles felt horrible, but he couldn’t kill Bass and he fully believed that Bass would kill him after that gunshot to the arm. He tried to tie Bass’ hands together, but Bass fought him violently. Miles pushed Bass onto his side and sat on his chest, tying his wrists together and then tying those to his ankles.

He could almost decipher the string of swear words from behind the gag. Miles was sobbing, he could barely see through the tears in his eyes. He’d fucked everything up. Why had he ever been so naïve to believe that he could kill Sebastian Monroe? That he _should_ kill Sebastian Monroe?

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, almost unable to form words.

He grabbed the gun and ran from the room and down the hallway. He could still hear Bass’ muffled cries inside his head, long after he’d made it out of Philadelphia and into the surrounding woods.


End file.
